


Pride

by Theswiftone27 (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Theswiftone27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America has finally found his freedom, achieved his ultimate life goal...his independence. He's finally broken away from his long time caretaker, finally convinced him and himself that it's for the New World's good that they separate. </p><p>He faces the impending future, greeting it with the innocence and excitement a newborn calf would use to greet the world.<br/>His future, in which England plays no part. He's no longer a babe in arms, to be nursed and cooed over...as if he'd ever been one.</p><p>But perhaps, just perhaps...<br/>He can't quite detach himself of England yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Sleeping under the stars  
> So near and yet so far  
> Dreaming of our past  
> Days that didn't last  
> Hoping we can last the years  
> Taken away from us so dear  
> Crying out for the stolen  
> Mourning the fallen  
> But let the memories of auld lang syne  
> Like fire,  
> At last  
> Light up the sky  
> One last time.

America stared out at the oblivion before him, the future extending its end towards a vortex of infinite possibility, of chances and randomness, of war and games and mystery that enshrouded it, making it all the more appealing, attractive, drawing him deeper into it. Of freedom, of independence...his independence, his freedom of will and choice. 

He felt triumph bubble to his lips, a fiery triumph that made him ever so grateful and proud that he'd overcome all of his obstacles...  
Obstacles.

Was England an obstacle? Was he, the small stature, soft spoken man with eyes green as jades, a personage stubborn on insisting he stay as he was, a high cliff in America's otherwise clear path to a brighter future?  
That was ridiculous. England was England, his caretaker since childhood, the preserver of his youth and life and destiny...  
And now, America was leaving him. Leaving him for a world he'd envisioned in his head, grafted his soul onto it like the times England had cared for him were nothing...

America thought, with a twinge, of how he'd been so little, so eager to greet England, a small colony burying his head in England's protective embrace. England had always smiled when he'd come to visit, rumpling his hair affectionately as he voiced how large America was getting, how big and strong. "Being around you makes me feel at peace, you know?" He'd said, the affection deep in his green eyes.

Don't think about it.

But America did, he did, with a fierce passion that almost overpowered his eagerness to approach the future. He thought of it, and other things, like when England had gifted him with his first ever toy, a set of toy soldiers with customised faces and their own miniaturized artillery. Of how delighted he'd been to receive it.

"Wow, they all have a different face!"

"Of course," England had smiled and pressed one into his tiny hand, making America...little America...grin. "They're all specially made, after all."

America laughed despite himself. His glasses were suspiciously fogged over with the mist of his tears, and he realised they had already streamed down to his chin. He wiped them off roughly with his sleeve and chuckled, remembering other things.

Of happy and sad, bad and good, laughter and tears...though tears had amounted to nothing in England's company. 

"I remember, England," He murmured, looking at his casual everyday wear a trifle accusing. "...when you had me put on suits and did my ties, when you brushed back my hair and lifted my chin so my posture wasn't sloppy."

Stop it. 

It hurts.

"And you'd admonish me for my 'atrocious mannerism'," America ignored the clamour of distressed voices in his head and said through his tears. "Sit me down to a meal that I didn't know anything about, so I thought was delicious. Encourage me to work out so I could stand up for myself and..." 

He stopped, thinking of the very last time England had addressed him as just America...the colony, America...on a bloodied battlefield, with America's troops surrounding the lone blonde, wielding his bayonet like a cornered animal. Still he'd yelled, screamed for America, he'd cried. "Come back!" Pain had been obvious in his gaunt features, streaked by soot and sulfur, blood and sweat.

Come back.

"I won't!" America remembered screaming back, and England's bayonet had struck the gun out of his hands, catching him off guard as the latter pushed the point towards his head, prepared to finish him off for good. The shrill cry the blonde had given was deafening, but he had suddenly staggered backwards and fallen to his knees, putting his head in his hands.

Sobs had wracked his small frame.

"I can't do it...Damn it...I can't kill you..."

America had stood there, senseless, the tears rolling down his sunkissed cheeks as he realised that it would never return to the way it had been, the way he'd rebelled as a child and England had told him,"Come home, America." 

Come home.

There was no longer a home for him within England's confinement, and America should've been thrilled...exhilarated with his success, his long sought after freedom. He should have been trembling with his excitement, numb with his joy. Proud. He should've been proud.

"I am proud,"  
He drew himself upwards and lifted his chin like England had taught him, squaring his shoulders determinedly. The void beyond him was endless, signifying years of struggle, hard work, but his own struggle to come. He was sad, yes, grieving the loss of the bond he'd had with England, grieving the lost forever friendship and alliance he'd once held. But a new bond would form, not one between a country and a colony, but two countries, standing strong. He'd done it.

"I won."

He had. Yet why did he feel like he'd lost?

America shook his head, tears flying as he cleared his bleary vision. He couldn't afford to dwell, to waste precious time in rebuilding the New World, his New World. His own world, free from anyone else.

He slipped his hand into his pocket and brought out something...a small toy soldier with a bayonet and a stern face and painted on blonde hair. Gently, America brought it to his lips and kissed it, a light, lingering kiss that he broke away from just as gently as if he was afraid it would break for its fragility.

It seemed like a farewell. 

"Goodbye...England."

That was that, and he turned to face his future.

On the other side of the world, England lightly touched his tingling lips and felt a tear drip onto his documents. He smiled, vision blurry with tears, as he signed the last contract needed for America's independence, his hand trembling like a leaf. He was scared. He was afraid for America, afraid the small colony...when become a country, would forget him, would go to ruin.  
But there was one thing he needed to say, one thing he was absolutely sure of, always had been sure of.

"I'm proud of you, America."


End file.
